Jackie Baldwin - Perfect Dead - A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked

‘Would you say Monro had any enemies?’ asked Farrell.

‘I wouldn’t have thought that he was sufficiently interesting to make enemies,’ said Moretti. ‘Anyway, I heard he killed himself?’

Wow, thought Mhairi. Say what you really mean, why don’t you?

‘We’re looking into all possibilities,’ said Farrell.

‘I see,’ said Moretti. ‘Perhaps he was interesting after all?’

They stood up to leave.

‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ said Farrell. They left the way they came and returned to the car.

***

‘That was one seriously creepy guy. And before you jump onto the moral high ground, it’s got nothing to do with his condition,’ said Mhairi.

‘I agree. It felt like he was hiding from more than the light.’

‘I don’t know about you, but I got the feeling he knew more about Monro than he was willing to let on. But why?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to figure out,’ replied Farrell.

Their final port of call was a handsome stone building in the High Street, a few doors down from Broughton House which held the Hornel Collection.

‘Not short of a bob or two then,’ said Farrell.

‘Must be nice,’ sighed Mhairi.

Farrell looked for a bell, but there wasn’t one, so he lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it drop. Moments later the door swung back and a familiar face appeared. It was Fiona Murray, the housekeeper who had happened upon the body of Monro Stevenson. Dour as ever, she didn’t crack a smile but simply stood aside to let them enter.

‘Mr Forbes is expecting you,’ she said, gesturing to a door on the right of the handsome wood-panelled hall. ‘He’ll be down shortly.’

The door led into a study, exquisitely furnished with antiques. Mhairi wandered over to the marble fireplace and inspected the photos. Her eye then alighted on an embossed invitation to a weekend shooting party at some big toff’s house. So he was a fully paid up member of the hunting and shooting brigade? She loathed that crowd.

Lionel Forbes entered the room and strode towards them exuding bonhomie and more than a hint of expensive cologne. Tall, broad and muscular, he was wearing fine tweed trousers teamed with a lilac shirt and purple silk waistcoat. He definitely had charisma, thought Mhairi. A wee bit too much finesse for her taste though. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him eating a fish supper in front of the telly like her Ian. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine DI Moore doing that either.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod,’ said Farrell stepping forward to shake his hand.

‘How can I be of assistance, officers? But first, where are my manners? Can I offer you some tea?’ he asked, gesturing to a rich brown leather couch, which made Mhairi want to kick off her shoes as soon as she sat down.

‘Thank you, no,’ said Farrell.

Mhairi resisted the urge to glare at him. Her stomach was starting to rumble. Farrell had no conception of what low blood sugar could do to a girl.

‘I understand that you’ve recently been assisting DI Moore with an art fraud investigation,’ Farrell said.

‘Yes, a challenging case from what I can gather.’

His interest sounded purely professional. No warmth towards DI Moore that she could detect. She gave herself a mental shake. Concentrate! This was what happened when she got hungry. Her mind lurched all over the place like a drunken sailor.

‘As someone who is very well connected to the art world we were wondering if you could give us some additional information about a number of local artists?’ asked Farrell.

‘In relation to the fraud case?’ Forbes asked, looking puzzled.

‘No. In relation to the death of Monro Stevenson,’ said Farrell.

‘But I thought that was suicide? That’s what everyone is saying.’

‘At this stage we must consider all possible avenues of enquiry,’ said Farrell.

Was hunger causing paranoia to set in or did Forbes look a little startled, wondered Mhairi, detecting the aroma of something delicious seeping under the door.

‘What do you want to know?’ Forbes asked, settling back on the couch opposite.

‘What can you tell me about The Collective?’

Forbes grimaced.

‘A bunch of dilettantes. They live in that crumbling mansion, Ivy House, heading out towards Dundrennan.’

‘One of them has been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize,’ said Farrell.

‘Hugo Mortimer. I was rather surprised when I heard. Don’t get me wrong. His early work showed great promise. Twenty years ago, he was the latest rising star in the art world. Instead of knuckling down and cementing his reputation, however, he succumbed to the wildest excesses and fetched up here. A broken down dissolute has-been.’

His colour had risen as he spoke.

‘A bit harsh?’ ventured Mhairi.

Forbes gave her a charming smile.

‘Perhaps. I simply hate to see real talent squandered. He could have been one of the best artists of his generation. I shall view his work with interest once it is released for public consumption.’

‘Are you aware of any particular connection between him and the deceased?’ asked Farrell.

‘Other than the fact that they were both artists, you mean? Well, Monro used to be in cahoots with that lot. He lived with them for over a year. Fortunately, he came to his senses and finally saw them for what they were.’

‘How many of them are there up there?’ asked Farrell.

‘Currently three, although the place used to be stuffed with hippie types. Looked like most of them needed a good wash,’ Forbes said, wrinkling his nose.

‘So, Hugo Mortimer and who else?’ asked Farrell.

‘Penelope Spence and Patrick Rafferty.’

‘All artists, I take it?’

‘Yes, all talented in their own way, particularly Penelope, but broken. They live in their own squalid bubble and have a rather inflated sense of their own importance.’

A lot of that going around, thought Mhairi.

‘How familiar are you with their work?’ asked Farrell.

‘I used to be, until around three years ago when that young Irish girl ran away. After that, they rather dropped off the radar. Mine and anyone else who matters.’

‘Until now,’ said Farrell.

‘Yes, I have to admit my curiosity has been rather piqued as to the nature of the work that so impressed the judges.’

‘What about the other shortlisted candidate?’ asked Farrell.

‘Paul Moretti?’

‘Yes. What can you tell us about him?’

‘Bit of an enigma. He keeps himself to himself. I’ve never even seen his work. Rumour has it that it is rather out there, even by Turner Prize standards.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I believe he is sought after by private collectors who are looking for something a little more exotic. Of course, that’s only a rumour. Nobody knows for sure.’

‘Did you know him prior to his allergies developing?’

‘No. He moved here from elsewhere. I had never heard of him. It could all be a cunning marketing ploy of course, creating an aura of mystery.’

‘And the deceased, Monro Stevenson?’

‘Very talented. Tragic to see an emerging artist cut off in his prime like that.’ Forbes sighed with what seemed to be genuine regret.

‘When was the last time you saw him, sir?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Let me think … It would be two days before the body was found. I walked past him down by the harbour sitting on a bench and staring out to the sea. He looked rather wretched, which I thought was odd given recent events. I didn’t wish to intrude, so I bade him good morning and continued on my way. I believe he may have suffered from depression in the past?’

Farrell didn’t answer the question, rising instead to his feet, followed by Mhairi.